


all that I wanted (wasn't unwanted)

by Jessabell



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Back Together, M/M, On the Run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessabell/pseuds/Jessabell
Summary: Erik supposes it was only a matter of time. Charles has always been a hopeless busybody, and without Shaw's helmet, he could never hope to stay hidden for long. It is both terrifying and strangely thrilling to realize that no matter where he goes, or how far he runs, Charles would inevitably find him.





	all that I wanted (wasn't unwanted)

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prologue to an eventual rewrite of X-men Apocalypse but took on a life of its own. It basically answers the question (for me) of what could have happened to Erik right after Washington. 
> 
> Road trips, temper tantrums, and eventually finding home.
> 
> The title comes from 'All I Wanted' by Daughter.

He's in a truck stop on the outskirts of Reno when Charles finally catches up with him.

Erik is more accustomed to being the hunter than the hunted, but both require a similar skill-set. He finds it's easy enough to keep his head down and sleep on the run, even with every T.V news channel in the country broadcasting his image. Despite being top on the list of America's Most Wanted, there are still plenty of places in this country for a man to disappear. He never stays in one spot for more than a day or two, sleeps in his car and eats at the type of roadside diners with disgruntled waitresses who don't ask too many questions and keep the coffee coming.  He does his best to stay ahead of the news, but when standing in line at a Texaco he sees a newspaper proclaiming that they've raised the reward to $75,000 for any information leading to Magneto's capture. The girl behind the counter stares at him for a moment too long, and by the time he's walked back to his car, he finds that he has broken into a cold sweat. That night he drives and drives until his eyes burn with exhaustion, and the lines of the road seem to blur together before him.

Erik supposes it was only a matter of time. Charles has always been a hopeless busybody, and without Shaw's helmet, he could never hope to stay hidden for long. It is both terrifying and strangely thrilling to realize that no matter where he goes, or how far he runs, Charles would inevitably find him.

He splashes lukewarm water in his face. The hot air prickles against his skin, and his two-week beard is becoming scratchy and uncomfortable. His reflection stares back at him through the film of the bathroom mirror, defeat written in the new lines of his face. He looks tired. Old. Vaguely, Erik wonders if this is how his father might have looked -- if he'd lived long enough to be anything more than just a blurry black-and-white photograph in Erik's childhood memories.

Suddenly, Charles is there, pale face reflected in the mirror just behind Erik's hunched shoulder. Their eyes meet, and Charles smiles.

"Hello, old friend," he says.

Erik turns around. Charles looks disarmingly real, standing there with his hands hung loosely at his sides. He's wearing a pale, chequered shirt and beige pants, and while his hair is still too long, he's shaved. His appearance is as deceptively boyish as always, but despite the solidity of him, Erik knows intrinsically that this Charles is merely a trick his mind is playing on him. A skilful imitation of reality.

"Get out of my head, Charles," Erik says.

Charles holds up his hands in placation. "I'm merely here to talk," he points out. His eyes are soft, sympathetic, and Erik finds himself wishing for anything else. He could handle Charles' anger far more easily than his forgiveness. "You can't keep running forever. They'll catch up with you eventually, and when they do --"

"It will take more than guns to stop me," Erik interjects, stiffening. They'd imprisoned him once. Years locked in a plastic cell. He wouldn't go back there without a fight.

"I know," Charles responds, brow furrowing. "And I know you have no compunction killing the men sent to retrieve you. And the ones after that. But how long will that last? You against the world."

Erik shrugs. "As long as I have to." It sounds so familiar to their old, circular arguments that he feels the ghost of a smile tugging his lips. "I have a contact in San Francisco. In a few days, I'll be out of the country."

Charles takes a step forward. Erik doesn't know if it's his subconscious or Charles' that is supplying this projection. Whose mind still clings to the notion that Charles is really standing here, well and whole. There is an earnestness in his blue eyes that reminds Erik of the night they first met when Charles assured him that he wasn't alone. That he never needed to be alone again. "Come _home_ , Erik," he says softly.

"That was never my home, Charles," Erik scoffs.

"It could be," Charles insists. "If you let it. Believe me, my friend, when I tell you that you're quickly running out of options."

Erik's eyes narrow. "I don't need your pity," he says, not bothering to hide the sudden chill in his voice. After everything that has happened between them -- the last thing he wants is to just be another of Charles' _strays._

Charles opens his mouth to respond, but at that moment the door swings open and a man in a baseball cap and dirty t-shirt walks through. Erik mentally lashes out. Hard. Charles disappears in a blink. The man eyes him cautiously for a moment -- no doubt he heard the tail-end of Erik's one-sided conversation. Erik clenches his jaw and perfunctorily washes his hands in the chipped sink before stalking out into the midday sunlight.

 

* * *

 

Erik makes it as far as Sacramento before stopping at a payphone outside a Little America diner. He slots in a couple dimes and dials the number, keeping his head down as a family exits their Chevy Wagon. For a moment, he thinks maybe it's going to ring through, but then he hears the click of the receiver and a tired voice on the end of the line.

"Hello?"

"How soon can you set up a meeting?"

"Erik?" Ink asks, sounding confused. There's some static on the other end as he leans conspiratorially over the phone. "Christ man, I thought maybe they'd found you."

"Tomorrow?" Erik presses. His conversation with Charles had left him feeling uneasy. Exposed. While he isn't so foolish as to seriously consider Charles' suggestion, he knows the man too well to think that he'll leave it at that.

"What? Nah, dude, he's a busy guy. Look, swing by the shop tomorrow and we'll sort everything out. You got the money?"

"Of course," Erik snaps. $4,000 dollars wasn't exactly easy to come by. Luckily, he still had some pseudonyms running from his time in pursuit of Schmidt, and a few friends who could access the accounts without drawing undue attention. He'd bought his car from a man in Washington who didn't ask for identification as long as he paid in cash.

"Hey now, no need to bite my head off. Got a pen with you?"

Erik reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled map of California. He pulls the top off a ballpoint pen with his teeth and balances the receiver on his shoulder. "Shoot."

Ink rattles off an address and it takes Erik two minutes of searching to find the right street. He circles the spot. "Be careful, alright? These people ain't exactly boy scouts. They're dangerous."

"I think you're forgetting something, Ink."

"Yeah?"

Erik smiles like a shark. "I'm dangerous too."

 

* * *

 

The tattoo parlour is in Sunnydale, on the corner of Geneva and Pasadena street. He parks outside of the squat blue building and feels the familiar hum of city life, the miles of steel framed buildings, cars, metal posts, chain-link fences, and tin roofs. They welcome him like old friends. He switches off the engine of his Oldsmobile with a wave of his hand and heads inside.

Ink glances up from a client when Erik enters. "Hey," he greets, eying his work critically. He wipes away some blood with the pad of his thumb before leaning back in, needle buzzing. "Head back. I'll be with you in five."

Erik eyes the young man in the chair, face down and back raw and exposed as Ink finishes off the tail of a rattlesnake. He rubs his own wrist without thinking, remembering sitting very still while a German soldier read his name off a list and reduced him systematically to a series of numbers. He finds that he's clenching his jaw and cautiously relaxes, scowling.

Behind the shop is a cramped sitting room with a worn flower-printed sofa and a few well-thumbed issues of Playboy sitting on a coffee table. He picks one up at random, flipping to a buxom blonde playfully stripping off her bikini, a plastic smile on her little girl face. He tosses it aside just as quickly, stretching out on the sofa and only half-watching the game show playing on a tiny black and white T.V.

It's considerably longer than five minutes before Ink appears, wiping off his hands on a dirty towel and grinning in that specific way all smart men do when they're trying to play dumb. "Sorry for the wait. Wasn't sure if you'd actually show." He pulls out a bottle of Acme from a container on the floor and cracks it open before tossing one to Erik. "Wow. The great man in the flesh. I saw that speech you made. 'We are the future' huh? Powerful stuff."

Erik frowns, taking a sip of his beer. It's warm. "Good to know I have a fan."

"More than one, man. I mean, I fought in 'Nam, and for what? To come home and get treated like I'm some kinda freak?" Ink's blue eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. "You didn't come here to debate politics though, did you?"

"No," Erik agrees. "But your passion is appreciated nevertheless. Did you set up the meeting?"

"Yeah, says he'll contact us tomorrow with a location. You got somewhere to crash?"

Erik sizes up the young man before him. He's pale but painfully earnest, a black tattoo across his face that makes his eyes look abnormally _blue_. It shifts atop his skin, subtle enough to seem like a trick of the light, only Erik knows it's not. He's the type of kid Erik might have recruited in an instant -- back when he had a revolution to lead. Dispossessed, naive and pointlessly angry in a way Erik knows only too well. Just give him a cause, add some fuel, and watch him burn. He doesn't have Charles' gift (no one would want _him_ in their heads) but he's good at reading people. Ink won't betray him. It wasn't in his nature.

Erik shakes his head.

Ink visibly brightens at that. "Well, my place is just upstairs. Got a couch. Shower too. You seem like you need one." He smiles, taking a swig of his beer. Behind them, the television flickers onto the evening news. "Look, don't take this personal -- I understand why you feel you need to get the hell out of dodge -- but after that show you put on at the Whitehouse, your face is _everywhere_ , dude. And not just national news, either. Somethin' about shit going south in Paris?  You're a global fucking phenomenon right now."

Erik raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his piss-poor beer and wondering when the kid will eventually find his point.

"What I mean is," Ink continues, noticing his expression, "that wherever you go, it better be somewhere without teevee." He gestures at the bleary television screen.

There's a close up of his face, clad in the helmet that he stole, cape billowing behind him. He looks so _certain_ of himself. Sitting here in a too hot room in clothing bought from a second-hand store, he feels like he's watching someone else entirely.

_"-- wanted in connection with the attempted assassination of President Nixon and several other high-level members of staff. The mutant, calling himself Magneto, remains at large. If you have any information on the whereabouts of this man, please do not hesitate to call the number you see on the screen below."_

 

* * *

 

Ink seems appreciative of the company and falls into step with Erik's sullen silences more quickly than most. They polish off the case of warm beer seated in front of the flickering television screen, and when Erik steps into the shower he's lightheaded and mildly tipsy. The hot water is enough to clear his head, however, and after stepping into some clean clothes he feels more human than he had in weeks. Downstairs, Ink offers him some leftover pizza and later tosses him an unnecessary blanket as Erik stretches out on the couch.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep is slow in coming. He hasn't had much time to stop and think since Washington -- immediate concerns kept him thoroughly distracted, a fact Erik supposes he should be thankful for -- but lying here staring at the mildew stained ceiling he finds his thoughts drifting. Charles was right about one thing. He was running, pure and simple. Even if he does manage to disappear -- to bury Erik Lensherr in a grave so deep _nothing_ will dig him out again -- what then? He's always needed a cause. Something to focus his laser attention on, to push all extraneous thoughts to the periphery. For a long time, it was revenge. And once he got that, well, he'd been chasing Shaw for decades and never really dared to dream about a life afterwards. It was Charles who inspired that in him. Stupid, arrogant, optimistic Charles who dreamed of a beautiful, Utopian future for their kind but without the stomach to do what was really necessary to obtain it. Who preached tolerance and patience while men like Trask laid the groundwork for their extinction. Erik had never intended to set them at opposition. But he'd also hoped that Charles would have known better than to try and stand in his way.

This newfound goodwill wouldn't last forever. Raven might be a 'hero' in the public eye, but how soon before the shine wears off? They're still little more than useful freaks. And for every child Charles takes under his wing, there are ten more out there, growing up scared, angry and alone.

_One step at a time, my friend._ It's Charles' voice, filtered through the hazy-glow of memory. _You can't force social change._

_And how many innocents suffer in the meantime?_ Erik thinks. _Humanity has never been accepting of those different from themselves. We're fighting against centuries of ingrained prejudice._

_Big things have small beginnings._ Charles responds. Erik could almost hear the teasing warmth to his words.

_That's trite._

_Even clichés have a grain of truth to them._

Erik groans, scrubbing his face with his hands. _This is ridiculous_ , he states. _You're not even real._ He pauses, considering. _I'm dreaming._

_Then wake up._ Charles suggests with a smile.

The phone rings. Erik jolts awake with a start. Grey, early morning light is spilling across the ceiling. He doesn't even remember falling asleep. Upstairs, he can hear Ink swearing to himself and the 'click' of the receiver.

"Y'ello?" Ink says. "Sure, sounds great.... Yeah, he's good for it. Think I'd seriously send him your way if he wasn't?" A pause. "Right. See you around, I guess."

Erik shakes off the last remnants of sleep, shoulders groaning from a night spent on the too small sofa. Ink pads downstairs, a coffee cup in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. "That was him. Wants you to come alone," he says, handing both items over to Erik with a yawn.

"Why?" Erik asks suspiciously. He checks the address. Seems to be somewhere along the bay.

"To hell if I know," Ink responds with a shrug. "I'm just the middleman here. Probably just a precaution. Word on the street is he's been _real_ paranoid since he got back."

_That makes two of us,_ Erik thinks with a grimace. He leans back and drinks his coffee.

 

* * *

 

It turns out the address leads to a deserted shipping yard. It's filled with rusting containers and bags of trash dumped by local residents. Someone has even left a rusting old washing machine. The sign mounted on the chain link fence warns trespassers in bold black letters that they _will_ be prosecuted. Erik raises an eyebrow and then purposefully tears another person-sized hole in the fence with a wave of his hand.

A man dressed in a crisp white suit stands with his hands folded.  Unlike Erik, he hasn't deigned to come alone. Two guys chosen for their size rather than their brains stand behind him with blank expressions, and there's another one in sunglasses leaning against the hood of the car reading a newspaper. The one in charge is younger than Erik had expected, with a military crew-cut and a bland, friendly expression on his face. There's a tattoo of a viper along the side of his face, tail looped around his left ear.

"Welcome to the offices of BDH exports," he announces, throwing his arms open to take in their surroundings with a grin.

Erik can just see the top of the Golden Gate Bridge poking out above the rows of shipping containers, a sliver of red, like a warning, against the cerulean sky. "Nice view."

"Isn't it? Excuse the procedure." As if on cue, one of the man-shaped mountains steps forward, gesturing for Erik to put his arms up. "Can't be too careful nowadays."

Erik prickles at this, but after a momentary pause he does as instructed. He doesn't carry any weapons on him -- no point, when any gun could be turned against their owner in an instant. He always did have a way with bullets. The man finishes by patting down his ankles then stands up, nodding in the direction of his boss.

"Thanks. Mister -?"

"X." Erik responds, with the type of deadpan expression that doesn't brook an argument.

The young man continues to smile. "Alright. Call me Zee." He reaches into the top pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a crumpled package of cigarettes. "Now's about the time you hand over the money, and I'll outline what you can expect for your generous investment."

Erik pulls out a wad of dirty bills while Zee patiently smokes a cigarette. He doesn't really appreciate the audience but knows he isn't in a position to object. In the end, he pockets less than a hundred dollars for himself.

Zee takes the money, passing it to one of his associates, who licks the pad of his thumb before starting the laborious process of counting. "Well, Mister X, we export a wide variety of merchandise, mainly to South and Central America. In a few days, we have a selection of machine parts leaving for Venezuela." He takes a drag of his cigarette. "From there, it's up to you. Shouldn't be too hard to bribe the local officials, obtain fake documents, disappear off the radar for good."

"Just like that?" Erik asks, not bothering to try and hide his scepticism.

"Just like that," Zee confirms. "The US government has always been more concerned about the people coming into this country than the ones trying to leave it." One of the bodyguards taps Zee's elbow to get his attention, then murmurs something in his ear. Erik looks past them to the man in the sunglasses, who has put down his newspaper in order to watch the scene unfold. "Except, I'm gonna need another two grand. To cover expenses."

"We agreed on four."

"We didn't a _gree_ on shit," Zee snaps, his plastic smile gone in an instant. "White boy like you -- there are easier ways to bug out. Buy a plane ticket. Book a holiday. Just don't come back. The people who buy tickets to my sorta luxury cruise are the kinds with no other options. The ones runnin' from something. And while I dig the 'don't ask, don't tell' kinda deal we've got going here, I also know trouble when I see it." He jabs his cigarette in Erik's direction, grey eyes watching him like he's a rattlesnake asleep in the grass. "And you, my friend, are trouble with a capital T."

Erik's fingers twitch. He's painfully aware of the chains around Zee's neck, the two gold fillings in his teeth, and the Colt .45 he has shoved down the back of his trousers. How easy it would be to bury these four men under a mountain of shipping containers and simply walk away. But he wouldn't be here if he had any more appealing options. Zee hasn't shown any sign of actually recognizing him beyond noting the look of desperation in his eyes and taking advantage accordingly. So he swallows down his more violent instincts with a grimace and slips his hands into his pockets before he does something he'll regret later. "Say I get you the money. How can I be certain you won't change your mind and ask for more?"

"You can't," Zee responds with a shrug. "You gotta trust me, man. I'm stickin' my neck out for you here, so I think that deserves a little bit of incentive." The salesman grin is back on, but this time, Erik sees it for the mask it really is. So it's greed, plain and simple. Well, that's alright. Greedy men have always been some of the easiest to manipulate. Their weakness is right there in the open. "Ship leaves in three days, so you've got until then to get the rest."

Erik nods. It's an additional complication, but not an insurmountable one. He steps forward, intending to take his money back, but Zee makes a clicking noise with his tongue and shakes his head. The man beside him pockets the cash and heads toward the car. "Let's call it a down payment, X. Wouldn't want you getting cold feet," Zee tells him dismissively, tossing his cigarette down onto the cracked pavement at their feet.

The man with the sunglasses opens the Cadillac door for his boss to enter. "Hey," he says, shutting the door with a 'click.' "Do I know you from someplace?"

Erik gives him a studiously blank look, while inwardly his blood runs cold. The man laughs as though it was some kind of joke, slipping into the driver's seat.

Erik watches them pull away, imagining crushing the metal of the car, crumpling it around them like an aluminium can. Over before they'd even know what was happening. But it wouldn't take long for a show of power like that to attract all the wrong sorts of attention. The last thing he needs is some over-inflated government agency swooping down here in force. And even if he does kill this man -- what does he gain apart from some momentary satisfaction? He'd be back at square one, as lost as ever. And it's only a matter of time before his past finally catches up with him for good.

He reminds himself that it's not giving in, exactly, to accept circumstances he can't change. And if this sentiment doesn't quite ring true, well, there's no one here to judge him but himself.

 

* * *

 

"It's official, man. You are out of your goddamn mind," Ink hisses, fingers gripping onto the steering wheel until his knuckles grow white. Erik can tell he's rattled, but he keeps an impressive lid on his emotions, blue eyes sharp and wary as he watches the empty street. He supposes it's military training and feels old and strangely out of place when he remembers that _his_ war was so long ago that kids like Ink only know about it from history books. Two world wars and they still didn't have their fill of death. Well, humans would always find reasons to hate and fear each other. They had no interest in a world they couldn't draw dividing lines across. "What's wrong with Mexico? Lots of border to cross. Pretty girls, nice weather -- shit, I'd even join you. Could use a holiday."

"Take a breath," Erik instructs, voice sharp but not uncaring. Ink's eyes widen, but he does as Erik asks, letting out a shaky exhale, shoulders slumping. "You know the plan?"

"Honk twice if I see anyone tryin' to enter the building," Ink says automatically. Kid sounds like he's answering his drill sergeant. Like all of a sudden, he's back there. Well, a little fear would keep his senses heightened. Keep him on his toes. It always worked for Erik. "If I see cops, get the fuck out ASAP."

"Good," Erik nods. The way he saw it, there were only three places that would have that kind of money to hand on a weekday: banks, chain grocery stores, and criminals. And the first two both had security.

He pulls the hood up on his dark grey sweatshirt and steps out into the twilit street. There are a couple of kids playing hopscotch on the concrete sidewalk, an elderly couple sitting on their front stoop watching them, but other than that it's deserted. They give him a cursory glance as he passes, but he doesn't elicit any further interest. Clearly, they've seen his type around here before. It's not hard to pass for a junkie -- he's worn and unshaven, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Honestly, he's addicted to something far more insubstantial than drugs. It's this -- the rush of adrenaline right before a fight -- that makes him truly feel alive.

The house is a turquoise bungalow with a rusted white gate, and it looks so deceptively suburban that Erik might have passed right by had Ink not given him the address. (He'd known it off by heart, which was far from being a good sign. _"That place was a shit-show. A living goddamn hell. A man needed somethin' to take the edge off. Stupid, I know. But I'm clean now. A whole two months. Scouts honour."_ ) The gate's unlocked, so Erik walks up and knocks on the door, keeping his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets while he waits. A single car drives by, glinting crimson in the setting sun.

"Yeah?" A young man with bleached blonde hair appears behind the screen door, sucking back on the tattered remains of a cigarette.

"Ink sent me," Erik explains, aiming for a hint of quiet desperation to his voice. "I've got money. Just need a little fix to get me back on my feet. In and out, man, I swear."

"That so?" The man at the door smiles. The fading sunlight glints off his metallic front teeth. Erik thinks he'll rather enjoy ripping them from his gums later. "Hands outta your pockets. Nice and easy, cowboy."

Erik does as he's told, holding all of his remaining cash in one hand like a peace offering. The man eyes the bills and then shoves the door open, standing back to let Erik through.

"One wrong move and I'll shoot you." The man explains, tugging a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson from the front of his jeans. He points it levelly at Erik's forehead. "Bam! Right between the eyes. You feel me?"

"I feel you," Erik responds, not bothering to hide the subtle tone of menace from his words. The light-haired man obviously doesn't consider him a threat, though, because he lets the words slide by with a grin.

"Yo _esé_! You got a customer here!" He navigates Erik into a side door with a nudge of a pistol.

The room Erik enters is Spartan, obviously intended to be a kind of office, but lacking in most professional accoutrements apart from a heavy wooden desk and a metal safe in the corner. A stocky, middle-aged man with slick dark hair and an orange shirt looks up as they enter, taking Erik in with a lopsided smile. "We don't usually get your type here. All the _gringos_ get their stuff uptown. You must be desperate." A young man sits in an armchair by the far wall, smoking a glass pipe, while a skinny guy with prison tattoos flips through a glossy magazine.

"Ink sent him," the man behind Erik supplies, leaning back against the doorframe and taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Tha _t adefesio._ Haven't seen his ass in a while. Tell him to swing by sometime. I've got some of the good stuff," the guy behind the desk remarks conversationally. "But you ain't here to talk about mutual acquaintances, are you?"

Erik shakes his head. "No," he replies, a thin smile crossing his features. "I'm here to rob you."

The words hang heavy in the air for a moment, held aloft by stunned silence. Orange Shirt slams his hand onto the surface of the desk hard enough to make the other three jump and starts to laugh. "You've got _cojones_ , I'll give you that," he says, wiping the corners of his eyes where tears have started to form. "But you're one _stupid_ mother fucker if you think you're walking out of here."

The guy who'd led him inside sticks his gun to the back of Erik's head, which is just the kind of amateur mistake he'd been hoping for. He gestures, ripping the pistol out of the man's hand with a fluid jerk and sending it skittering across the floor. "What the _fuck_ \--" he begins, but then Erik's concentrating on his metal teeth, and there's a whole lot of screaming going on -- entertaining, but not particularly coherent.

" _Shoot him!_ " The man behind the desk stands up, reaching for the sawed-off shotgun Erik had felt the moment he walked into the room. He pulls it out of reach and melts the barrel, just to be safe. The kid in the armchair drops his pipe with a clatter and reaches into his pants for his gun, but his hands are shaking so badly he can barely grasp it. The blonde has fallen to his knees, groaning throatily and grabbing at his mouth, thick blood spilling over his frantic fingers. Tattoos grabs a rifle from behind the safe and fires.

(Erik remembers standing with the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead, Charles' finger on the trigger. _"I can stop it,"_ he assures him, grinning with certainty. He thinks of the bullet which killed his mother, that tore through skin and shattered bone while he stood by and did nothing. _I can stop it._ He won't be helpless again.)

The bullet curves around Erik, bursting through the chest of young man beside him in a shower of blood. It arcs downward, shattering the wrist of the blonde before passing through his throat. Before the guy with the rifle even knows what's happening the bullet twists its way round and slices a path from one side of his head to the other. Erik reaches out and stops the warped and blood-soaked piece of metal just inches away from Orange Shirt's head.

"Hand over the money," he instructs, "or this bullet keeps going."

"You're that son of a bitch from the news!" the man exclaims, but he doesn't push his luck, ducking down beneath the bullet which remains hovering in midair. He grabs a plastic shopping bag, sidestepping the prone bodies with a look of distaste as he kneels to open the safe. "The cops are gonna string you up by your balls when they find you, you mutant freak." He grabs bundles of crisp twenties done up neatly with elastics, and by the time the safe is emptied the bag is straining. He tosses it in Erik's direction, narrowly avoiding the blood soaking into the carpeted floor. "Now get the fuck out of here."

"Believe me, I intend to." Erik makes a little gesture and the bullet flies across the room, lodging itself firmly in other man's forehead. His facial muscles have just enough time to register a look of shock before he crumples to the floor.

He picks up the bag, heading further into the house. Neighbours have started to gather on the street outside, talking amongst themselves and awaiting the police. Clearly, a gunshot is considered a form of entertainment around here. He cuts through a beige-tiled kitchen and forces open a locked door with an audible bang. The woman inside screams and clutches her child to her chest -- a boy of about seven or eight with wide brown eyes and curly black hair, too young to understand the reason for his mother's panic. Inwardly, Erik curses. He hadn't expected anyone else to be home. Plastic toys are littered across the floor, and the T.V. is on, garbled noise in the background.

" _Por favor señor._ Please, let me and my baby go. We won't tell anyone, I swear. Just leave us in peace, I beg of you."

_They've seen your face. You know what you need to do._ A voice within Erik points out dismissively. _Besides, they're only human._

He raises his hand.

The woman gazes up at him with tear filled eyes, murmuring something beneath her breath. He thinks she's still trying to plead with him, but when he listens more closely, he realizes that she's praying. Her child clings to her, balling her shirt up in his little fists. Suddenly, he sees his mother standing there, the dirty striped dress, her hair bound in a brown kerchief. _Alles ist gut._ It's only for a split second, but it hits him like a blow to the chest. He hasn't thought about his mother in a long time. Outside, he hears the wail of sirens.

"Get out," he croaks. The boy's mother doesn't seem to have heard him, her eye's wild and unfocused. "Go _. Now._ " Erik barks, gesturing to the door. The anger in his voice is enough to snap her out of it and she scrambles toward the hallway, dragging her child behind her. Erik doesn't wait to see if they've made it, throwing open the back door with enough force that it's nearly ripped off its hinges as he heads out into the cool night air.

 

* * *

 

The murders reach the morning papers -- three pages in, there's a brief article about a turf war and rising crime rates. There's no acknowledgement of the unusual behaviour of the bullet, nor any mention of a suspect, which Ink takes as a good sign. Erik reads the article twice and can't shake the feeling that they're purposely leaving things out -- scattering crumbs of ignorance to lure him into a sense of complacency. It's nothing more than paranoid speculation at this point, but then again, Erik hasn't gotten this far by mistrusting his own instincts. The sooner he leaves this country the better.

Zee telephones his instructions. Erik will meet the _Overseas Martinez_ on Pier 96 at eight o'clock. His chosen alias, Henryk Gurzsky, will be added to the ship's manifest as a general labourer. In a week, he'll have landed in La Guaira, and the United States government will be left chasing a ghost. After that, well, it was entirely up to him. Erik could find his way back into Europe. Poland, maybe. Start laying foundations on the life Klaus Schmidt had stolen from him all those years ago. It won't be easy, but if his time with Schmidt had taught him one thing, it was how to survive.

The dock is a flurry of activity when Erik arrives. Transport trucks are idling along the roadside as massive cranes load containers onto the waiting deck of a ship. Men are calling to one another, waving machinery forward, and hardly spare Erik a sideways glance. The air is singing with a cacophony of metal which, to him, sounds sweeter than any symphony. He can feel every dent and rivet of the boat which will spirit him away, and inwardly he touches them all, greeting them like a lover's familiar body.  Even before his mutation emerged, he'd always been fascinated by machinery.

On board, he's directed below decks, where crew members are securing some loose cargo. He joins them without a word. Outside, someone gives a muffled shout and the iron frame of the ship begins to rumble, like a hulking beast slowly shifting into wakefulness. There's the clatter of feet overhead. More shouting. Erik stretches out with his powers, but he's overtired, and the metal surrounding him is practically deafening. A sensory overload. He slips away down the far corridor, pausing at a porthole long enough to see men gathering along the pier, dark shadows against the flashing lights of the police cars idling behind them. Erik swears beneath his breath and sets off into a run.

He needs to get above deck. Booted feet pound down the stairs behind him, confronting the crewmen Erik had worked alongside. He rounds a corner, holding out his hand. The ship lurches violently to the side, a sudden clamour overhead as unsecured containers scrape across the deck. Screaming. Someone splashes into the water below. Erik smiles in mute satisfaction, hitting the far wall with his shoulder and splaying his feet to keep his balance. The ship rights itself with a shudder, rocking back and forth in the choppy water like a child's toy. He can feel the cargo hold before him, and to the right of that, a ladder.  Almost there.

"Stop!" A voice calls out from behind him. "Hands where I can see them!"

He turns around.

The man is young, early to mid-twenties, wearing the dark blue uniform of the San Francisco Police Department. The only metal Erik can feel on him is the shiny badge pinned to his chest and the gold cross around his neck. The gun he holds shakily in front of him is made of plastic. No wonder Erik couldn't feel them coming. He raises his hands as instructed.

"Erik Lehnsherr, you are under arrest for the murders of Alonso Martinez, Paul Garcia and Hector Rodriguez and for the attempted murder of the president of the United States --"

_Somewhere between rage and serenity._ Erik reaches out. The metal ship vibrates around him like a living organism. He's looking for something -- a single note in a complex symphony. He makes a small gesture in midair. The screech of protesting metal echoes throughout the enclosed space. The ship shudders and lurches leeward as he rips away the metal plating of the forward hull. The dirty water of the San Francisco bay rushes through the opening in a torrent. Erik and the police officer both stumble as their world twists beneath them, taking on new Escheresque dimensions. Erik is the first to find his footing.

"Stop!" Despite his panic, the officer has managed to keep hold of his gun. He fires more out of desperation than conscious decision, finger tightening on the trigger. Erik's adrenaline is so high, he barely feels it at first, flinching backwards as the lead and polymer bullet embeds itself into his leg. "The suspect is north on deck one. This is Officer Ramirez. I require immediate backup- -" The officer says urgently into his radio, struggling to his feet.

The ship groans and shivers as it sinks into the bay. "Listen," Erik says. "If we stay here, we will _both_ drown." His left leg aches. A warm dampness spreads across his thigh.

"If you move, I _will_ shoot you again," the young man replies, although he has the good sense to look nervous. He shifts on his feet and nearly stumbles as the ship gives another violent lurch. Suddenly, the young man stiffens. _"Well, this is a fine mess,"_   he says, in a voice that does not seem to belong to him at all.  _"I can't hold them for long, my friend. So I suggest you run."_

"Charles? What --"

_"We'll discuss this at a later date. Hopefully, when we're not in imminent danger of drowning_ ," the young man says with a familiar smile. The pistol slips from his fingers with a clatter.

 Erik doesn't need to be told twice, shoving open the nearest porthole. He pauses, listening to the panicked yells ashore, people diving into the water to save comrades who were splashing desperately beneath them. With a steadying breath, he slips into the black unforgiving waters below.

 

* * *

 

When he finally reaches shore he feels wane and exhausted. Collapsing onto the stony bank, he can barely resist simply rolling over and closing his eyes. But the discovery of a half-dead man washed up on a local beach wouldn't be long in coming, and it's the last thing Erik can allow. He struggles to his feet, ignoring the throbbing ache in his leg, which is still bleeding freely. Cold water drips down the back of his neck as he limps toward the nearest side-street.

He steals a cream coloured Ford Taurus on the corner of 24th and Michigan and doesn't stop until he's outside of Vallejo. He has no idea of the direction he's heading beyond: away from here. He stops at a twenty-four-hour truck stop for gas and supplies, buying the only first aid kit on offer and some lukewarm coffee, which he drinks without tasting in the parking lot. He cuts away his stained jeans in the men's room and examines the gunshot wound, swearing elaborately beneath his breath as he pours a bottle of iodine over it. He can feel the bullet, a kind of distant echo tugging beneath his flesh, but his attempts to remove it just result in further blood loss. In the end, he's forced to simply bandage it up as tightly as he can and hope he'll have better luck in the morning.

He hesitates by the phone booth outside -- his presence here has hardly gone unnoticed, blood-stained with clothes still damp from his impromptu late night swim -- but the parking lot is empty apart from two transport trucks with dark windows and he decides it's worth the risk. He closes his eyes as he listens to the phone ring through the plastic receiver, combating the newest wave of exhaustion that threatens to engulf him. He can't remember the last time he had a full night's sleep.

"Yeah?" It's Ink's voice, sounding as tired as Erik feels. He almost pities the kid, before remembering that at least he has a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in tonight.

"Are you alone?" Erik asks.

"Aren't we all?" Ink replies. Erik rolls his eyes, but still, it's nice to hear a friendly voice. "Some suits swung by earlier. They were real tight-lipped, but I managed to get the gist. Sounds like someone sold you out, huh?"

Erik's fingers tighten around the receiver. The steel frame of the phone booth gives an imperceptible shudder. "Any ideas?" He isn't in any position to go reaping any righteous vengeance at the moment -- not with every police officer and FBI agent in America on high-alert -- but he isn't the type of man to forgive nor forget a betrayal.

"Uh... beyond the obvious?" Ink says. "Look, I can't make any claims to sainthood, but I'd _neve_ r rat out one of my own like that. Especially not to the pigs."

"I believe you." Telepathy isn't his gift, but he didn't get this far in life without learning to read people. If the kid had wanted to collect the reward, he'd had plenty of better chances over the last three days. Ink may be desperate, but he's not stupid. Erik believes him, but he doesn't trust him. Even the people who mean well have all kinds of selfish motivations.

"That's good because I really wasn't looking forward to being the next name on your shit list. No offence, man, but you give me the creeps," Ink lets out a dry, self-depreciating laugh. "Listen, I've seen my share of secret service guys in 'Nam, but the ones who stopped by here were the real fucking deal. Men in black types.  I mean, make you and your entire _family_ disappear with the snap of a finger." Static as Ink shifts the receiver within his grasp. "I'm bugging out. Gonna get as far away from _here_ as possible. I suggest you do the same." A pause. He seems to want to say something else, but at the last moment, he changes his mind. "Thanks, y'know, it's been fun."

There's an audible 'click' at the other end. The line goes dead.

He's used to people drifting in and out of his orbit. His time with the CIA showed him the value of allies -- he probably would have died in his pursuit of vengeance if it weren't for Charles -- that perfect combination of innocence and arrogance who looked at him and saw something worth _saving_. What they built together in Westchester -- it was beautiful dream. But sentimentality was a weakness Erik had never been able to afford. Ink wasn't the first person he'd failed, just the latest.

He limps across the parking lot, turning the engine over with the wave of a hand, and doesn't look back.

 

* * *

 

He stops the car outside the rusted metal gates, torn between incrimination and self-doubt. He's been driving for twelve hours straight, the tree-lined roads melting into a single picture in his mind's eye. He hesitates for a moment, steering wheel humming beneath his fingertips, before gesturing toward the gate. It unlocks itself with a 'click' and swings open like an invitation.

He parks the car a little way from the house, walking up the gravel drive. His leg is stiff and sore enough to grit his teeth after long hours trapped in the driver's seat. The grounds look conveniently deserted -- sadly overgrown though beginning to display some small attempts to assert a civilizing influence amongst the chaos. A young girl is sitting on the worn stone steps, a book open on her lap.

"Yes?" she asks, looking at him quizzically. "I'm afraid you've missed visiting hours." Erik can't place her accent, but it certainly isn't American. She gives him a once over, scrunching up her nose in distaste. The state he's in, Erik can't exactly blame her.

"I'll take it from here, thanks." Hank McCoy strides up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The little girl hesitates for a moment before snapping her book closed. She heads inside, glancing over her shoulder once more before shutting the door behind her. "The Professor's been expecting you."

Of course, he has. Erik battles between exhaustion and indignation, though in truth, he shouldn't be surprised by Charles' arrogant assumption. He'd tried running. Charles knew just as well as he did that, at this point, there was truly nowhere else for him to go. "Still hiding, I see," Erik says, at last, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me, Hank, is it fear or self-hatred that makes you so fond of this disguise?"

"Terribly sorry to have offended your high minded ideals," Hank responds sharply, "but some of us have to live in the real world."

"Is that what you call it?" Erik asks, gesturing at the unkempt grounds, "You and Charles, burying your heads in the sand while your mutant brothers and sisters are on the front lines. Tell me, Hank, how well do you sleep knowing the sacrifices that have been made in a battle you'll never fight?"

"And how's that war going for you, Erik?" Hank snaps. For a moment, Erik can almost imagine a momentary tinge of blue. "You're here, which I guess means you don't have any other options. You act like we're the enemy, but we're _not._ The Professor just wants to help you -- God knows why -- after what you've done, I'd gladly see you thrown out on your ass." Hank sighs. "But he's always been a better man than me."

Erik falls silent, torn between denials. He had never meant to make Charles his enemy. The things they could have accomplished together... it defied imagination. Perhaps a part of him had secretly hoped that Charles might one day see the futility of his idealistic dreams, that they could fight this battle side-by-side again. But he had long since learned not to pin his hopes on impossible things. Even after this terrible future they had managed to avert, Charles still spoke of a better way. He knows that humanity will turn on them, if not with Sentinels, then with some other new invention. They would always fear those who were different from them. And whatever they could not quantify or contain, they would inevitably destroy. Charles realizes this, but he will never allow himself to strike the first blow and mutant kind is doomed because of it.

_Oh, Charles_ , Erik thinks fondly, _you should have let them take me. Because otherwise, I am never going to stop._

"Where is he?" Erik asks.

"Inside," Hank jerks his head at the house, stepping back to allow Erik through the front door. "You might want to get cleaned up first," he remarks, giving Erik a cursory once-over as he slips by. "You look like shit."

 

* * *

 

Hank leads him upstairs to a spare bedroom that hasn't seen use in years, judging by the thin layer of dust on every surface. Compared to where he's been staying lately though, it's practically paradise. He strips away his dirty, blood-encrusted clothing and stands beneath the hot water until he feels human, wordlessly grateful that Hank had given him the chance to make himself presentable before he faces Charles again. He finds a straight-razor in the bathroom cabinet and hacks at the tangled remains of his beard, wishing that his weeks on the run were so easy to discard -- to scrape away until there was no evidence left at all.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Raven says, leaning against the doorframe. He's not sure how long she's been standing there, and that in itself is disconcerting.

"Raven." He doesn't turn away from the bathroom mirror, dragging the razor across the side of his cheek. "I hardly expected to see you back on Charles' leash so soon."

She frowns. She's still wearing that old familiar mask, all peachy skin and bright blonde hair, the personification of the all-American girl-next-door. As though she needs to keep up this charade around him. He's always been able to see right through her. "I come and go as I please," she says off-handedly. Erik's not sure if she's trying to convince him or herself. "Besides, you're hardly in a position to judge."

Erik doesn't dispute this, tapping the razor clean on the side of the sink. "Where's the real you?" he asks. "Or has Hank managed to shame you back into the shadows?" He raises an eyebrow. "I never took you for a coward, _Mystique_."

Raven tenses at that, eyes narrowing. "I'm _done_ listening to your bullshit, Erik," she tells him. As if being shot through the throat wasn't enough to tell him that. "You act like you can see the way forward but you're just as lost as the rest of us." She stops, folding her arms across her chest. But her mask melts away like water, and suddenly, there's the girl he remembers, beautiful, fierce and wild. "At least Charles didn't try to _murder_ me."

Erik pauses, reflection eyeing her thoughtfully. "You know why I did that."

"Yeah yeah, 'the greater good of mutant kind' and whatever," she says, shaking her head dismissively. "It _still_ hurt my feelings." She frowns petulantly. Erik smiles tightly, gesturing with his hand as the razor blade drags across the sharp edge of his jaw. He must be overtired, because he catches a bit of skin and swears, a droplet of blood sliding down his throat. Raven crosses the room. "Here, let me do that," she says, plucking the razor from thin air. She looks up at him, yellow eyes narrowing as she deftly adjusts the angle of his face with her fingertips. He stares at her, not bothering to disguise his admiration. She truly is a glorious creature. It would have been a shame to kill her. "Why are you here, Erik?" she asks, meeting his gaze as she adeptly drags the razor across his skin.  "I would've thought you'd be out of the country by now."

Erik shrugs his shoulders. "I tried."

Raven pauses. He can practically see the pieces falling into place. "That whole mess in San Francisco was you, then?" she says. "Jesus, Erik. You just don't know when to quit."

"So I've been told."

Her fingers tighten against his jaw, strong enough to bruise. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, " she tells him harshly, "and frankly, I don't care. But leave Charles out of it."

"Your brother is quite capable of taking care of himself," Erik responds. She's holding the razor blade pressed against the throbbing artery of his throat. It would be easy to rip it out of her grasp, but he's admittedly curious what she will do. She wouldn't kill to avenge her comrades -- but what about to protect them? Besides, it's hardly the first time she's threatened his life.

She leans into him, close enough that he can breathe in the scent of her. "I'm warning you, Erik," she murmurs, "hurt Charles again and the next time I shoot you --" a smile curves across her lips "-- I won't miss."

Erik laughs, breath echoing off her skin. She grins at him, teeth impossibly white against the deep blue of her skin, and tosses the razor into the sink. "It's good to see you, Raven," he tells her, surprised to find that he means it.

"Go to hell," Raven snaps. She's still smiling though. "There are clean clothes on the bed. Don't want you wandering around in nothing but a towel all day. Not that I don't enjoy the view," she adds with a wink.

"How thoughtful," Erik responds with an arch of his brow. He picks up the razor in his hand, steadying himself against the lip of the counter. "Tell Charles I'll be down in a moment."

She walks across the room, pausing in the doorway to glance back at him. "Oh, he knows," she says cheerfully, pulling the door shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

Downstairs, Erik heads for Charles' study. He's surprised by how natural it feels. After all these years, he still remembers the way. The house hasn't changed much -- a little shabbier, perhaps, more lived in -- but it still has the same air of ostentatious grandeur that makes Erik's skin crawl. Sometimes he used to forget that _this_ was Charles' world, not the grimy backstreets of Dusseldorf and that it was easy to be an idealist when you slept on clean sheets every night.  He hesitates outside the wooden door, hearing voices inside. Ten years ago, he would have simply pushed his way in, but now -- actually _seeing_ Charles again was different than going over familiar arguments in his head. He's too isolated and exposed now to afford any weaknesses, and Charles is and always will be his greatest vulnerability. He's not frightened, but he is wary, and cognizant that every wall he builds to protect himself could be torn down by Charles with a smile.

"-- technically, he didn't _assassinate_ anyone." That's Charles' voice, not in some half-remembered dream but here in the next room. His tone is seemingly calm and polite, but Erik knows him well enough to hear the barely restrained frustration lying coiled beneath the words.

"Not for lack of trying," Hank points out dryly.

A pause. "Hank, I understand that you and Erik have a... tense history," Charles points out gently. Erik smirks. Hank is Charles' man, always will be, and his loyalty was probably one of his most impressive characteristics. Erik knows too well the magnetic pull of having someone look at the parts of you that you were most ashamed of and call them _marvellous_. While Erik could never respect someone who was so riddled with self-hatred that they tried to destroy the one thing that made them truly special, he found himself begrudgingly pleased that Charles had someone like Hank looking after him. God knows Charles never could take care of himself.

"That's an understatement," Hank mutters under his breath.

"But he's one of us." Charles insists. "As much as I'd hate to admit it, Erik has done more for mutant kind than anyone. I may disagree with his methods, but not with his intention. I knew from the first moment I saw him that he was a man of extremes. He has as much propensity for good as he does for evil."

"So what do you suggest, Professor? We hide him from the authorities until... what? They get bored and stop looking?" Hank asks sceptically. "And what happens then?"

"I believe that's very much up to the man himself," Charles says. "Wouldn't you agree, Erik?"

Erik stiffens. Well, he couldn't reasonably expect to stay lurking outside the doorway forever. He steps inside, doing his best to disguise the limp he is beginning to develop. Charles is sitting behind a heavy mahogany desk, Hank pacing the carpeted floor in front of him. Erik leans his weight against the nearest bookshelf, crossing his arms over his chest. "Some would say that what you're offering is a fancier prison than I deserve," he responds after a moment, meeting Charles' brilliant blue gaze.

"I prefer the word 'sanctuary.' You'll note that no one is holding anyone against their will," Charles points out, eyes crinkling at the corners. He could call it what he liked, but Erik knew that this house was little better than the plastic-lined cell he had until recently inhabited. There was the illusion of freedom, but that was all. If he stayed here, he would never leave, and eventually, he might not even want to. Charles stares at him for a moment longer, as though he cannot believe that Erik is truly here. Then he seems to recall that Hank is still in the room and turns to him with one of his more charming smiles. "You can leave us, Hank," he instructs.

Hank seems to hesitate. Something imperceptible flickers between them, and is done in a moment. "I appreciate your concern," Charles says, "but he won't harm me."

Hank turns to Erik as though looking for confirmation. Erik simply smiles at him, slow and knife-like, when Hank glowers. "Sure," he relents at last, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging. "Let me know if you need me." Hank shoulders his way past Erik on his way out the door, fixing him with a stare that could only be read as a threat.

Erik smiles. "Ever the optimist, Charles," he remarks teasingly.

Charles lets out the ghost of a laugh. "Yes well... it seems some things don't change, my friend." He meets Erik's gaze, a softness there he recognizes but had almost convinced himself never existed at all. A chord strikes deep within him, and he _can't_ \--

Erik jolts away, moving to glance at the books on the shelf behind him. They are mostly psychology, though with some Romantic-era poetry thrown in. He brushes his thumb across a worn spine -- it's Wordsworth, predictably. "I bumped into Raven upstairs," he says at last. "I'm surprised she came back."

"Quite frankly, so am I," Charles responds. "I try not to ask too much of her. She's very much a law unto herself these days. But she knows my door will always be open."

"Is that why you asked me here? To offer a similar arrangement?" Erik asks narrowly, his hand dropping to clench at his side.

"I asked you because you needed help, and it was within my power to give it," Charles tells him, and it's so straightforward, so _Charles_ that Erik has to give in and look at him. "Believe it or not," he adds softly, "I do still care about your well being."

It feels as though Charles is poking at an old wound -- one he thought healed over, scarred and forgotten-- only to find that it is bleeding freely still. He could hate Charles for this, the way he can bring out things within Erik he had never thought himself capable of and wasn't entirely sure he wanted. "Why?" It's the same question he's been asking himself for years, that started the moment he first saw Charles in the water, his eyes impossibly blue in the glare of the searchlight assuring him that he wasn't alone. _Why me?_ He never asked for this, and he's done nothing but prove, time and again, how truly undeserving he was of it.

It's Charles' turn to look shocked. There's something impossibly _sad_ within his smile now as he folds his hands across the surface of the desk. "... I'm surprised you need to ask” he says at last. 

"I can't stay, Charles," Erik tells him. His voice sounds unconvincing even to his own ears. "There's too much I've left unfinished." It was hard enough to leave the first time. Now.... He should have never come here.

Charles presses his lips together. He seems disappointed but not surprised. "I quite understand." He sighs, dropping his hands to carefully wheel himself out from behind the desk. Erik had almost forgotten about the chair. He knew, of course, but had never looked too closely at the extent of the damage he had left in his wake. He had learned early, explicitly and painfully that there was no use wishing you could change the past. "Stay a few days, at least. We're still in the process of reopening the school so most of the bedrooms are empty," Charles explains with a shrug of his shoulders, trying to convey disinterest and failing. He fiddles absently with the fraying end of his sleeve, disarmingly boyish as he glances back up toward Erik. "I don't suppose you'd care for a game of chess - for old times' sake?" he asks.

Erik considers his options. He could walk away, take his stolen car and head for the border. But there's little hope he won't be recognized. His choices were becoming pathetically limited. There was no actual harm in staying for a few days as Charles suggested, beyond the wounds he inflicts upon himself. As long as he doesn't indulge himself with false hope, he can still walk away unscathed.  "... Alright." Erik says at last, ignoring the brilliance of Charles' smile and assuring himself that he hasn't already lost.

 

* * *

 

While nominally the school is still in the process of rebuilding, Erik quickly learns that Charles has not abandoned his habit of taking in strays. There are five students of varying powers and ages who, in Charles' words, truly had nowhere else to go. Hank teaches them science and math, while Charles handles literature, history, philosophy and languages. In between lessons, they both spend most of their time holed up in Cerebro. Charles usually emerges white-faced and exhausted -- clearly, he's still unused to taxing his powers -- but Erik spares him the familiar lecture. Truthfully, it's none of his business anymore, though it grates on him more than he would admit to see Charles still hunched over his desk grading papers while the rest of the house has been long asleep. Mystique disappears and reappears at will, purposely flaunting her freedom in front of Erik as though to prove a point, and seems nearly as superfluous here as Erik himself until he catches her one afternoon playing an extremely unregulated game of tag with the children on the back lawn, flickering between forms at will. She seems freer than Erik has ever seen her, and he feels a stab of regret when he remembers dragging her screaming body across the blood-streaked Parisian street. It had seemed necessary at the time. But he remembers Charles' certainty that she could be turned away from the path Erik had set her upon, and realizes that perhaps he never truly knew her at all.

Hank refuses to say more than two words to him and takes a certain, vicious pleasure removing the plastic bullet from Erik's thigh. Erik assumes he's simply holding a grudge after Washington but catches Hank staring at Raven over the dinner table and realizes perhaps it's more than that. As beautiful a creature as Mystique is, he's hardly going to go chasing after old flames, especially ones that were as innately doomed as he and Raven. Erik cannot help himself from glancing at Charles as he stubbornly insists this, watching as he gesticulates rather wildly, explaining some abstract philosophical concept -- Jung and the nature of the subconscious from the sounds of it -- to the teenager at his side. He pauses when he catches Erik staring, lips quirking subtly upward as he meets his gaze. Beside him, Raven looks between the two of them and then dramatically rolls her eyes.

"Oh please, would you two just get a room already," she hisses at Erik under her breath. She takes a certain malicious pleasure as he promptly chokes on his potatoes.

"It's not --" he begins.

Perhaps he really did teach her too well, because she immediately cuts him off. "Of course it is, it always has been. I'm not stupid, Erik." she snaps, arching her jaw in a mannerism she must have unconsciously adopted from her brother. "Not everything is life and death. Why don't you just let yourself be happy for once?"

There are many reasons, but Erik finds he has trouble recalling them as he sits across from Charles for their traditional game of chess. It was strange, being back here again. For years he had bitterly convinced himself that Charles had been nothing but a distraction from his true purpose -- his final revenge against Shaw, and the building of a better world for mutant kind. Losing him had seemed a fitting punishment, a harsh but necessary return to reality. It was easier than considering that perhaps he had finally managed to find something _better_ but ruined it anyway. Facing Charles' indignation had merely cemented that belief, made it palpable that they had chosen their paths in life and there would be no turning back. But now he feels as though Charles' complacency has trapped him within a strange kind of limbo, where the offer of everything he had never allowed himself to want was there within his grasp. It seemed impossible, and yet, there was a time when he had truly believed that Charles might have stupidly forgiven him _anything_. He finds himself watching the precise way Charles' fingers wrap around his chess pieces, and Charles wins the game more easily than usual. He quirks an eyebrow, and Erik feels the gentle but perceptible brush of Charles' thoughts against his own. It's akin to stretching out a hand to wake someone,  a kind of wordless questioning. There was a time when it would have seemed second nature to them both but now it sets Erik on edge. Charles already knows where he stands, the rest of it -- the vague tinge of regret that now lies curled within his stomach, alongside a strain of longing that is becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore -- it belongs to him alone.

"Out of my head, Charles," Erik warns, resetting the chessboard with a wave of his hand.

"Apologies," Charles flashes him a mischievous smile, slumping back into his wheelchair. "You're just so damnably frustrating sometimes."

Erik smiles, thin and knifelike. "Believe me, my friend, the feeling is entirely mutual." He isn't sure how to respond to the sudden intensity in Charles' gaze so he stands up and excuses himself, heading for the empty, impersonal bedroom that already is beginning to seem like it belongs to him. He slams the door harder than he needs to, feeling confused and resentful, though mostly at himself.

He'd spent most of his life alone -- out of choice, at first, and then out of necessity. The death of his mother was a wound that would never truly heal, one of the first and most intimate lessons that Schmidt had taught him about the innate fragility that loving someone brings. He'd occasionally sought comfort in others, but never for long (Magda had been the only exception to that rule, beautiful, wild and strong enough to make Erik briefly wish he'd had the courage to _stay_.) Meeting Charles had shown him another way: one amongst his own kind, with allies and maybe even friends. A life beyond his single-minded pursuit for revenge. Charles was brilliant; bold and certain of himself and free with his affections in a way that Erik never could be. Little by little he tore down the barricades Erik had spent decades building -- unlocked the front door and invited himself inside. And truthfully, he's never left. Charles had shaped Erik into the man he was today just as much as Schmidt had. A kinder teacher, perhaps, though the wounds he'd left behind were no less brutal.

He'd thought he'd abandoned these foolish hopes on a beach in Cuba, but now he stares at the muted canopy of his too-luxurious bed and aches for things long forgotten. There was no going back to the way things were, and yet a part of Erik wonders: _why not?_

They've already altered the future once, after all.

 

* * *

 

Sleep is slow in coming that night, and eventually, Erik gives up entirely. He sits up, glancing at the clock beside his bed which mockingly informs him that it's just past two in the morning. He stands up. His wounded leg is stiffer than usual, throbbing with a steady pulse that is almost impossible to ignore. He grits his teeth and hobbles down the corridor until the ache subsides, and doesn't realize exactly where his wandering feet have taken him until it's too late.

Charles' door is half-open, a sliver of warm light seeping out into the black hallway. Another late night, apparently. Erik pauses outside and then knocks before he can talk himself out of it.

"Come in." Charles is seated in his wheelchair beside his bed, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He tilts his head quizzically as he sees Erik. "Can't sleep?" he asks. There are white bars mounted on either side of the queen sized bed and Charles grabs hold of one, hauling himself up out of his chair with the strength of his upper body alone.

Erik starts forward. "Do you need --" he begins.

"I'm quite self-sufficient, thank you," Charles says quickly, with a curt nod that stops Erik in his tracks. He collapses atop the mattress, scooting back before grabbing each leg and lifting it individually after him.  "I considered hiring a comely nurse to feed me and give me sponge baths before I remembered that I am an absolutely horrendous patient and she would despise me within the week." His voice is forcibly cheerful, though a little breathless from exertion.

Erik attempts a smile, it's the reaction Charles is searching for, but it comes out strained. There is something about the way he's lying there, the awkward angle of his feet, that shakes Erik deeply. He steps forward, hand hovering over Charles' extended legs, which are too thin, like twigs easily snapped.  "...does it hurt?" he asks, uncertain that he even wants to hear the answer. _You did this to me_. Charles' voice returns to him unbidden, his eyes wide and glassy with pain as Erik cradles him in the wet sand.

Charles looks at him strangely. "At first," he admits. "Now I just don't feel much of anything."

Erik's throat is dry. "Charles, I --" He finds it difficult to continue. _I'm sorry_ feels like a mere platitude compared to the all-encompassing wound Erik has dealt him. All the apologies in the world couldn't even begin to make this right.

"I know, my friend," Charles tells him softly. Erik can feel the brush of Charles' mind against his own once more. This time, he doesn't bristle at the intrusion. "It seems we've both made mistakes."

Erik can't argue with that. He settles himself gingerly upon the edge of the bed. "Whatever this is, whatever happened between us in the past..." he trails off. Charles is offering him something, but Erik isn't sure what. Forgiveness doesn't seem like the right word and anyway, Erik isn't asking for redemption. "You don't owe me anything."

" _Owe_ you?" Charles looks properly aghast at the assumption. "You think this is about obligation?" He reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around Erik's wrist, as though to anchor him in place. "I spent an entire decade convincing myself to hate you, and look at where that got me." He shakes his head, letting out the breath of a laugh. But there's no trace of humour in his eyes, which stare out beneath dark lashes with an intensity that leaves Erik stunned and breathless. "The one thing these last few months have taught me is that life is too short for recrimination."

Erik shifts in Charles' grasp, tangling their fingers together in a motion more familiar than it should be. He looks down, smoothing his thumb across the top of the other man's hand. "You deserve far better, Charles."

"I think I'll be the judge of that," Charles responds, giving Erik's hand a reassuring squeeze. He flashes him a boyish, lopsided smile, nodding his head at his own motionless legs as though they belonged to another creature entirely. "Besides, as you can see, I'm hardly a catch."

Erik feels a flash of hot, irrational anger, fingers tightening perceptibly around Charles' own. "You can't possibly think I'd give a damn about that," he says with vicious certainty.

Charles lets out a surprised noise that is supposed to be laugh, though it falls far from mirthful. "Honestly, sometimes I'm not sure which of us is supposed to be the idealist." He shakes his head again, looking down at their clasped hands which rest upon the surface of the bed. Erik can't recall the last time he has seen Charles look so unsure of himself, and feels a violent swell of undirected hatred at anything that dared to make this reckless, arrogant man _doubt_. "It's quite alright, Erik. I don't suffer under the delusion that I'm anyone's image of desire," he admits, at last, that same ironic smile twisted across his lips.

"Charles --" Erik says sternly, releasing his hand to grab him by the shoulders. He feels the intense urge to shake some sense into him. But he forces himself to be gentle, meeting Charles' startled gaze. "Look into my mind," he asks. Charles raises his hands toward Erik's temples but then hesitates. "I'm giving you permission," he prompts softly, leaning in to press their foreheads together. Charles' hands flutter down to cup his face, lips parted, skin unconscionably warm. "It doesn't matter," Erik murmurs. He can feel Charles' thoughts sparking against his own, a gentle probing, and Erik does his best to send the bundled mess of guilt, lust and a depth of feeling that Erik has spent years trying to put a name to, that is lying coiled within his brain. Then, without giving himself a chance to doubt, he closes the space between them and covers Charles' mouth with his own. At first, it's meant to only be a light press of lips, but then Charles makes a soft, needy sound in the back of his throat and pulls Erik closer. Erik responds in kind, opening his mouth, and then they're kissing, messily, _marvellously_. His world narrows just to this, the softness of Charles' lips, his hands gripping Erik too tightly as though afraid that at any moment he might disappear." _It doesn't matter_." Erik reassures him fiercely as they break away. He could repeat this forever, a mantra, until Charles _finally_ believes him.

Charles deliberately meets his gaze before he grabs the front of Erik's t-shirt and kisses him again, hungrily. Erik groans and presses Charles back against the headboard, his outward fragility belied by the fact that Charles seems to give back as good as he gets, pushing into Erik in a clash of lips and frenzied breath. Charles seems to be doing his best to keep his powers in check, but glimpses of delight and longing rise every so often like bubbles in a glass of champagne. They break apart just long enough for Erik to rid Charles of his t-shirt, and the other man makes a noise akin to desperation as Erik presses kisses down the curve of his throat, across his chest, to tongue gently at a nipple. Charles gasps and arches -- it's indecent, the sounds that he's making -- and Erik can't help but wonder how many people have touched Charles since the accident, if any at all. It's abhorrent to think that someone as innately tactile as Charles has always been (with the kind of casual, feather-light touches that used to drive Erik mad) has been locked in a self-imposed prison of his own. The idea drives away all remaining vestiges of rational thought, and he shifts on the surface of the bed, swinging his leg over to straddle Charles as he kisses him, wanting to explore every inch of Charles' body, to erase the weight of years of helpless loneliness they both struggled against. Erik strips away his own t-shirt, and when he returns, Charles' hands run up his back, fingers digging tight enough to bruise. Erik is reminded of when Charles first took hold of him in the water, wrapping his arms around a complete stranger, and feels as though he's been drowning for years, only now coming up for air.

Erik lowers a hand to where their groins meet, slipping beneath Charles' pyjama bottoms which hang dangerously low off his thin hips. Charles makes a strangled noise, cupping Erik's ass and grinding against him. Erik curses beneath his breath, biting down on Charles' shoulder, and Charles moves his free hand to cradle the back of Erik's neck, just shy of tender and kisses him again and again and again. "Don't you dare --" Erik growls, white-hot pleasure bursting behind his eyes and Charles rolls his hips against him. "Don't you dare hold back on me now."

Charles' eyelashes flutter open, surprised. "But you --" he begins.

_I want you, Charles._ Erik projects, thumb brushing across the tip of Charles' leaking cock and laughing breathily against the crook of his neck as Charles lets out a low, plaintive whine. _All of you._

It's not an offer of unfettered access, of course, but right now Erik wants nothing more than to see Charles come undone. He presses his lips to Charles' temple, picking up speed, and Charles' fingers dig into Erik's scalp as he _finally_ lets go.

If before Charles' thoughts had felt like a trickle, echoes of pleasure and want repeating back at him, now it was a torrent. Erik feels staggered by the complexity of the emotions that came flooding into him. Every sensation feels magnified, reverberating between them both in an infinite feedback loop. Charles presses their foreheads together, steadying him somewhat, though Erik still has difficulty telling where he ends and Charles begins.

Neither of them lasts very long after that. It's too blindingly intense, the hasty friction of skin, rich, rough and desperate, arousal pounding through his blood and the sound of Charles' voice both inside his head and out. They move together in stuttering, frantic rhythms, rubbing off against each other like teenagers, faster until -- Charles comes with a groan and Erik isn't far behind, the after-waves of the other man's orgasm still trembling through him like a plucked string.

When Erik finally surfaces it's with Charles' arms around him, cradling him like he's something precious and pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. Charles has already withdrawn from his head, although there's still the faint, perceptible brush of his attention somewhere at the back of Erik's mind. He didn't realize how much Charles had been holding back until now he's not.

What a long road they've both travelled to end up exactly where they started.

"I've missed you," Charles admits.

Erik props himself up onto his elbow, reaching across Charles to switch off the light. He presses his face into the crook of Charles' neck when he returns, simply breathing him in. There's an uncomfortable dampness spreading across the front of his boxers, but right now, he's simply too exhausted to care. "You're not alone, Charles," he says and at this moment, endorphins still chugging sluggishly through his veins, he means it.

This doesn't change anything. There's still the Brotherhood, the revolution he has worked so hard to build. This place is still just a stopover, a temporary reprieve, and yet --

_Stay_. The word is like a whisper, and Erik isn't sure if it originated from Charles' thoughts or his own. He closes his eyes, listening to the rise and fall of Charles' breathing in the dark, wondering if there will ever come a time when he can truly stop running. When he can simply _be._

 

* * *

 

Erik wakes to the pallid grey skies of early morning. Charles is a flushed, lean body plastered across his front, the steady rise and fall of his chest informing Erik that he's still asleep. He disentangles himself as carefully as possible, taking a brief moment to appreciate how impossibly young Charles still looks, the worry lines of the day smoothed away. Charles shifts and frowns at the sudden loss of body warmth but doesn't wake.

He heads back to his bedroom. The long, hot shower rids him of the last vestiges of lingering exhaustion and by the time he dresses in a grey sweatshirt and track pants the sun is just beginning to cut through the cloud cover. Before prison, he used to go on early morning runs. Gazing at the mist-covered grounds through his bedroom window, he thinks now seems like as good a time as any to resume the tradition.

He's glad there's no one else awake because by the time he makes it downstairs and out the front door, he only manages a few feet before his wounded leg starts to ache unbearably. He curses under his breath, leaning up against the brick wall of the house, and hears a voice that sounds vaguely like Charles' chiding him for his impatience. Everything will come at its own pace. And for once, perhaps, time is on Erik's side. He walks the rest of the way down the gravel path, breathing in the damp, early spring air.

As he turns the corner he spots a little girl sitting on a weathered stone bench. He recognizes her from his first arrival at the manor, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her wide blue eyes gazing accusingly at the ground beneath her feet. She's still dressed in what looks like pyjamas beneath her dark blue overcoat and her focus is so intent that at first she barely notices him. When he sits down next to her on the bench she glances up.

"What are you doing out here?" Erik asks accusingly.

An expression of guilt flickers across her face before it's replaced with steely determination. "Practice," she responds, gesturing at the stone path. She extends a hand in a gesture startlingly similar to the one Erik uses to summon his own powers, and the gravel at their feet begins to rattle, as though in the precursor to an earthquake. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the movement subsides. The little girl furrows her brow. "You are the man from the television," she says at last.

He nods. "My name is Erik," he tells her.

She looks him over with a critical eye before nodding cautiously back. "Petra." Erik guesses that she must be eleven years old at most, though there is something serious and sad in her expression that makes her look older. "You said we did not have to be afraid any longer."

Erik absently wonders how many people his speech actually reached. It wasn't the great revolution he had planned, but it was something, at least. "Are you afraid?"

Petra nods her head, wringing her hands in her lap. The air around them is quiet and still, the silence stretching out like a sigh. "I could not stop it," she admits, at last, staring down at her feet. "They died and I.... I must be strong."

Erik feels shaken by this admission, though he does his best not to show it. His expression stays impassive as he gazes at her, though inwardly he wonders how many more mutant boys and girls exist in this world with the same story. No matter what he and Charles do, they'll never be able to save all of them. But, for now, there is a little girl in pain. Erik gazes at her seriously, hands resting on his knees. "I understand," he tells her. "Have you spoken to Charles about this?" Comforting children is hardly his area of expertise. With the Brotherhood, he gave his fellow mutants purpose. A cause to fight for. But their demons were their own. Erik wasn't so arrogant as to believe he could instantly erase a lifetime of fear, anger and misery.

"The professor?" she asks, glancing up at him. She shakes her head. "He is a nice man. I don't want him to...."

Worry. Pity me. _Fear me_. Erik can easily fill in the blanks. "And me?"

Petra presses her lips together. "You are not a nice man," she tells him with certainty.

Erik can't help but smile at that. She was perceptive, at least. "You're frightened," he says. "It's your fear that keeps you from reaching your full potential." He remembers endless hours replaying the scene of his mother's death in his head. If only he had been stronger, braver, more certain. If he had moved the coin, she would have still been alive. It haunted him for decades, the self-doubt plaguing him like the worst kind of nightmare, and he had never really been free until Charles, who brought out long forgotten memories and showed him a future beyond the pain. "Don't think about what would happen if you fail," he instructs. "Focus instead on what you're trying to protect." _Somewhere between rage and serenity_ , he thinks.

Petra takes a deep breath, raising her hand again. The stones shake beneath their feet once more. She grits her teeth. All at once they fly up from the ground, hovering in midair before their eyes. The little girl laughs, delighted, and splays her fingers wide. They shatter against the brick wall of the house like so many pieces of hail.

Erik grins at her, feeling the stone bench begin to shift beneath them. "Better," he says to her approvingly. "But raw power isn't enough." He stands up, nodding toward the open grounds beyond. "Let me show you."

Petra considers his offer with the eyes of someone who has never been given anything without having to sacrifice something in return. Erik had looked at Charles the same way, standing outside the CIA facility and afraid to trust that anyone might want him for a reason beyond the violence he was capable of. He thinks of the way Mystique would flinch away from her own reflection, how Angel always hesitated to fly in daylight, how Azazel followed with the single-minded devotion of a man raised to be a slave, Ink's sullen, pointless resentment of a society he could never be a part of, and the freedom he had promised all of them and failed to deliver. Maybe now they were beyond his reach, but parts of them lived on in every lost mutant child that human society failed to save. Petra gives a curt nod of her head, rising to her feet. "Teach me," she says briskly, following him across the grass.

Erik finds that he is only too happy to oblige.

By the time they enter the house, Petra is exhausted but beaming, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. She pauses in the doorway. "Thank you," she says stiffly, before turning to grab him around the middle in a tight squeeze that nearly bowls him over. She lets go and races up the stairs before he can react.

"Making friends I see," Charles observes, voice low and terribly fond as Erik walks into the kitchen.

"Coddling young mutants is your job, not mine," Erik protests, though he can't hide his slightly bemused smile. He crosses the room and rests a hand on Charles' shoulder. "Though may I suggest investing in some proper training facilities? If only to save your front lawn."

"I think someone parked their Ford in the tree outside my window," Hank grumbles as though on cue, wandering into the kitchen and making a beeline for the coffee brewing on the stove.

Raven enters after him, looking out the window and letting out a long, slow whistle. "Wow. Okay, who pissed Erik off this time?"

Charles wheels himself beside his sister, surveying the wreckage. He glances over his shoulder at Erik, who can't help smirking at his aghast expression. "I wouldn't look so pleased with yourself,"  Charles says narrowly. "You and Petra are going to be the ones who'll have to clean it up." His attempt to sound stern is somewhat ruined by the smile he's clearly struggling to disguise. Erik huffs out a laugh and after a moment Charles joins in.

Raven looks from one man to the other and shakes her head. "Looks like somebody's friends again," she points out archly, slipping across the tiled floor to steal the mug of coffee from Hank, who makes a vague sound of protest. "Sorry babe, finders keepers." She sidles up beside him, rising on tip-toes to purr into his ear. "I'll make it up to you later."

"You better," Hank gripes, though he does look somewhat mollified, grabbing a fresh cup off the counter.

"Oh good lord. She's my _sister_ ," Charles complains. "The less I know the better."

Raven sticks out her tongue at her brother, slipping her blue hand into Hank's as she guides him out of the room. Erik watches them leave, amused, before moving to pour himself the last of the morning's coffee.

"You have a point," Charles muses thoughtfully, cradling his mug in his hands, "the students do need to learn how to control their powers in combat. If merely for self-defence," he adds.

"There are more threats in this world than Shaw and Trask," Erik reminds him darkly, leaning against the counter. "We may have prevented one disaster, but something tells me there are plenty more where that came from. Not to mention what will happen if the humans ever find out about this place."

Charles sighs. This was a familiar argument, and one they were clearly destined to repeat, no matter what fragile peace they've formed. For now, however, Charles lets it his objections go unmentioned. "Then I suppose I'll need to find someone to train them. You wouldn't happen to know anyone who might be interested, would you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Erik smiles. "I might," he admits. Charles' thoughts brush against his, indulgent and warm. He crosses the floor, bending down to press a kiss to Charles' jaw. "Depends on how attractive the terms are," he murmurs.

Charles grins at him. "I believe we can come to a suitable arrangement," he says playfully, raising his free hand to cup the side of Erik's face. Then he hesitates, meeting Erik's gaze. "If that's what you really want."

"It's your home, Charles," Erik points out, brimming with amusement, affection, frustration and something very nearly like hope. "Though you'll find I'm rather difficult to get rid of."

" _Our_ home," Charles stubbornly corrects.

 Erik rolls his eyes but leans in to kiss him anyway. His mouth tastes of early mornings, mint toothpaste and coffee with cream, familiar in a way Erik can't place but knows, inevitably, he'll keep coming back to. He's never truly known what home feels like, not when he's constantly been on the run, never in one place long enough to build a life there. But for now, he thinks that Charles might be roots enough to hold him. He smiles as they break apart, fingers lingering against the side of Charles' face as he prepares to face this new future they've founded together.


End file.
